Chapter 1

   Arching up against the meaty flesh of the Russian, I mewl as he rubs his clothed crotch against my butt. He smells like cigars and whiskey, but the pungent smell makes me even hotter for his flesh.

  "Little squirrel. You've wandered into the ogre's den. And I'll eat you up so that nobody can ever enjoy you again," he says gruffly.

He squeezes my butt roughly with one hand, the other holding my chin tightly as he kisses and horks my mouth with his own.

  "Please!" I mewl out.

   Some drool leaks out the side of my mouth, trickling down my chin. The chest of the man is huge and square, the hours of working in his private gym clearly working miracles on his body. He growls deep in his chest as if an animal is in there. A lion, wanting to eat me up.

  "I'll make it so that you won't be able to walk, so you'll have to crawl wherever you go. That way you can never run from me when I want to get it going with you. And I can grab you right by your ass and drag you to my bed," he growls as he kisses my jawline.

   I mewl and shudder as he works his way to my collar bone. He kisses roughly, the stubble of his jaw tickling my very light bronze skin. My shirt lays crumpled with my pants on the floor with my socks. I only have on my underpants.

  He has on his shirt as well as his pants, but they're both coming undone in the heat of our love-making. Gripping my butt, he lifts me up and pushes me into the center of the bed, where I put my arms over my head as I relax. He pulls off his shirt and his unbuckled pants, and they fall shapeless to the carpet underneath. Crawling over to where I lay, he attaches his mouth to mine, kissing me again. One hand plays with my nipple, the other fondling my butt. My whole body moves and moans at the feeling.

  I feel his warm and sweaty hand reach into my underpants, touching the skin of my butt. He dances around the surface of it, leaving no part of it untouched. The other hand grips the back of my neck as he continues to taste the interior of my mouth with his tongue. I moan out.

  "You are spectacular," he breathes into my mouth during the space of two kisses. I moan in response. He's completely distracted by my body and mouth, and he's exactly where I want him.

  Perfect.

  Making sure not to catch his attention, I snake my right hand down from around his neck and slowly reach back behind me, where the pillows lay white and clean. Reaching under them, I enclose my fingers around the syringe I prepared earlier. Not making a sound as I pull it out from under the pillow, I mewl out to hide the sound of the cap coming off. Then, making it look as if I'm snaking my arm back around his neck, I position it at the base of his skull.

  "I love you," he breathes out as he looks into my light-brown eyes with his dark ones.

  "Ahh!" I moan out seductively. He smiles and attacks my neck, kissing and biting the skin.

  And then I inject him.

  The needle is far too small for him to realize that something is stabbing him, and I squeeze the concentrated bleach into his neck. All I had to do was find it in the cleaning closet. Elementary really, considering my life-long training to kill.

  His body stiffens, and his eyes go wide as he looks at me with pained surprise as the toxic chemical melts his brain. Then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps forward, his dead and warm body leaning on me.

  "Mission accomplished," I say with a grin. Shoving his corpse off me, I hop off the bed and walk over to where my clothes lay. Picking them up, I quickly dress. Now for clean up.

  Walking back over to the bed, I look at his empty eyes that stare at nothing. Poor man. I reach out and close his eyes. He might be sleeping. I roll him over and pull him to the headboard so his head rests on the pillows, further adding to the effect of death during sleep. And by the time they find out that it's not natural, I will have disappeared already.

  Picking up his clothes, I search through the pockets in the pants and pull out the car keys to his onyx black Citroen parked in the garage. Walking over to the bed, I reach under it and pull out my little bag with my equipment. It's not much. Just a little inventory of pills and syringes. And my gun. Setting it on the nightstand, I do an efficient sweep of the room so as not to leave any traces besides the dead body that has my smell on it, a proof of my existence. Wiping all the surfaces with an alcohol wipe, I pour some whiskey onto the carpet, so as to mask my smell. Perfect.

  Walking to where he lays dead, I take one look at him before I walk out of the bedroom and down to his garage. The huge house is really amazing, with all the brand new appliances and crystal chandeliers. But they all mean nothing now that the head of the house lays dead.

  The car is open, and I throw in my little bag and shut the door. The button to the gate is in the sun-shade thing, and pressing it, I open the door as I simultaneously start the engine. Making sure to buckle up, I drive out into the night, leaving the body in the huge mansion behind.

  The rain from earlier of today shines and glistens under the streetlamps. And the dark night sky has some light pollution from the glow of the city. But the streets are pretty much empty, save for a few night-owls driving to their graveyard-shifts, and some rowdy teenagers. They honk and look at me with their drunken mouths open. I just ignore them. They most likely won't remember who I am anyhow.

  Stopping at a red light, I reach into my bag and pull out the transceiver that is barely the size of two quarters, and turn it on. It crackles, and then a whining noise fills the interior of the car. Scowling, I adjust it to the right frequency.

  44.2...44.3......there!

  It stops whining, and the voice of my angel-in-the-sky crackles through.

  "Agent 618, cite your name," crackles the monotone and low voice. A voice like a cow...

  "This is agent 618, initials R.K. Code name 'Sundew', reporting the status of my mission," I say into the transceiver as I recite the message I'm to say when I call in to report.

  If I mess anything up during this process, I might as well turn myself into the Russian authorities. All hope of leaving here would be dust in the wind.

   The light turns green and I drive through the intersection. Heading for my pick up point.

  "Name confirmed, state the status, Sundew," buzzes the voice.

  "Turkey is frozen and cold."

  "Acknowledged. Turkey is frozen and cold. Head to the extraction point. ETA is twenty minutes," crackles the voice.

  I grin as I turn the device off, and stow it into my bag. Turkey. I remember the first time I learned what it was. I was training, maybe when I was twelve. I saw a bird with a strange figure, big and plump. But I was desperately hungry. Chasing it and then breaking its neck, I had the bird cooked and ready twenty minutes later. It was amazing. The amount of oil and fat of it was the most I ever had to eat during my whole life. And the best part was that I didn't need to fight to have it. It was all my own to eat.

  Continuing to drive, I make my way through the outskirts of the city where the road nears the sea. Every now and then a house or church pops up, but it soon disappears as trees and darkness replace them. The road now runs next to the sea, a railing with streetlamps every forty or fifty yeards with yellow fluorescent light shining down. The lights look bent over as if their necks were wrenched and ripped into their miserable shape. But I drive past them. I only have so much pity for the world. Pretty much none for some streetlamp.

  Nearing a river that has a deserted bridge running across it, I park the car in the shoulder of the road, dangerously close to where the ground drops to the water flowing out to sea below. The cold frozen horizon sits to the right, the dark woods lifeless to the left.

  Stepping out, I look around for the right thing. A rock that's both heavy and strong. Not finding it, I give up and jump inside the car. Pulling the gear shift, I put the car into neutral. Grabbing my bag before hopping out, I watch to make sure what I want to happen occurs.

  The car inches forward to the edge, and then as if in slow motion tumbles into the river. The engine sputters and roars for a moment, before choking and dying. The headlamps flutter and blink, before going out. The whole of the black cars slides deeper and deeper, until only waves on the surface hint the existence of it beneath its waters. And those disappear quickly.

  I grin. Now to the extraction point.

   Walking out onto the tiny bridge, I make sure that nobody is looking. The woods that surround the area are dark and quiet, not to mention secluded, but anybody could be watching. But for now, it seems fine.

  Making it to the middle of the bridge, I step up on to the railing that is meant to stop idiots from falling into the sea and drowning. Waste of tax money if you ask me.

  The dark water underneath froths and bubbles and a black shape looms out of the water, the size of a whale. Spurting and raising waves and salt-water, a black submarine surfaces. The salty wind blows some of the droplets onto my face, but I just ignore it. It doesn't hurt anyhow.

  The little tower that is centered on the center of the body of it hisses, and somebody opens the hatch before stepping out.

  Shining a blinding light at me, I hear them shout, "State your dogma," with a low and booming voice.

  "Jus Post Bellum!" I shout to make sure he can hear me.

Justice after the war. Strange if you think about it. Why have a saying that promotes civility for a branch of a government intent on killing in the shadows? But it's what it is. I don't question it.

  "Good. Now hurry and get up here! We're leaving now!" he shouts.

  I nod. Looking down at the sub, jump off the bridge and onto the slick and wet surface of the hull. Making sure not to slip, I run over to the ladder on the little tower and climbing up quickly, getting to the top. The guy motions me to the hatch, and I walk over and make my way inside.

  The inside of the sub is relatively warm, and a bit more comforting than the sharp and cold air outside. But not by much. I don't care. As long as I'm somewhat comfortable, and alive, I'm whatever. And I accomplished my mission.

   Looking up, I see the man close and secure the hatch, before making his way down the ladder and stepping down to the level I'm on. His pepper-and-salt hair catches the light, and his dark blue uniform with badges and stars boast his rank.

  "Sundew, welcome aboard my submarine. My crew and I will transport you back to D.C. and the trip itself should take roughly two days if all goes smoothly. Please follow me to your temporary quarters."

  "Thank you, sir," I respond. Talking more than necessary has been hardwired out of me since I was ten. Where I come from, one word could lead to a kick in the gut. And a metal-toe boot too.

He leads the way into the interior of the metal whale. But before he does, I see him eye me for a moment. Is that pity? How wasteful. He must think about how wrong it is to have such a young child be doing the work of an adult. To have a kid sleeping around and shooting the brains of foreign enemies with bleach filled syringes.

  Idiot. I'm a weapon. I've been trained to do this. My sole reason for existence is to kill and exterminate. Nothing more, nothing less. And in some cases to incinerate evidence. But most of what I do and where I go, people die.

I hear cranking and strange rumbling, and I swear I can feel the submarine submerge beneath the icy waves. But that means I can breathe with a bit more ease. Soon I'll be back to HQ, and receiving my next mission. I wonder how many kills I have now.

  I don't have to wonder. Wondering is stupid. Knowing is everything. And I know how many missions I have now successfully executed. 83. This is my eighty-third. And more than 120 people killed by my hand. At least officially. Unofficially the number is much higher.

  But that doesn't matter. All that matters is that I keep going. I was born and made to do this. To be a weapon. To raze and annihilate the person or city that I'm aimed at. It's what I am. But right now, I'm just a boy being brought back home. Well, to the place where they raised me. Not really a home. And a boy who killed another person. But it's what I am. I'm a killer.

  I guess this is goodbye, another man who loved me.